


When I Sorrow Most

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 07:51:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7749382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I hold it true, whate'er befall;<br/>I feel it, when I sorrow most;<br/>'Tis better to have loved and lost<br/>Than never to have loved at all.<br/>Alfred Lord Tennyson, "In Memoriam A.H.H."</p>
            </blockquote>





	When I Sorrow Most

**Author's Note:**

> My ficathon piece is going so badly, even my subconscious is just tossing random ideas out to distract me. Apparently my standards at 2 am for "good idea" are incredibly low...

It takes her time to say it, but when she does she--to both their surprise--never stops. _I love you_ , whispered before they fall asleep. _I love you_ , grumbled as he dresses for work. _I love you_ , over the telephone. _I love you_ , laughed as they banter. She’s lived with the guilt of not telling someone often enough, and she is determined to never feel that regret again.

When it happens, it’s a day with no warning. The weather is… fine; not dreary enough for what is to come, but not so bright as to be ironic. She pulls him in by his tie for a second kiss when he comes to the bed to say goodbye.

“Mmm, love you Jack,” she says, her eyes still closed; she wishes later she had taken the chance to see him up close one last time.

“I hadn’t noticed,” he teases, then leans in to brush his lips against her ear. “I love you too, Miss Fisher.”

Then he stands and heads to the door; she cracks open one eye to watch him stride away, admires the way he moves before going back to sleep.

Two hours later she’s investigating her own case--suspected adultery, no police presence needed--when the subject of her inquiry notices her and becomes belligerent. She has it under control, but someone calls the police and she’s brought to Hawthorne Station to give a statement.

It’s remarkably like City South, inside at least, and Phryne sits in the reception area waiting for the constable to call her through. She’s bored, decides that City South is by far the superior station and--after overhearing the DI cursing out one of his men from his office--Jack the superior policeman. She wonders if she should call him, get him to light a fire under this useless constable; decides not to, because she can hear his teasing retort about coming to her rescue. She’ll tell him over dinner.

The telephone rings several times, the poor constable at the desk looking progressively more flustered. It’s not until she hears “City South” that she’s truly interested.

“Police motorcar,” she hears him whisper to another constable, looking shaken. “Didn’t survive.”

It takes her a moment to put it together, realises that statement or not, Jack has lost a man and needs her more. She re-applies her lipstick, paying no heed to the propriety of such an act in public--Aunt P would be scandalised--then moves towards the desk.

“Excuse me, constable, but I couldn’t help but overhear. I really must insist on leaving. Jack Robinson of City South is my… well, he’ll happily vouch for me, and I really do think I’ll be of more use there for the moment,” she says, extracting a card from her purse. “You can--”

“Ma’am, please sit down.”

“I will not sit down,” she bristles. “I have no intention of pressing charges, so this was always an exercise in futility.”

She sees one constable nod to the other, feels her stomach clench even though she can’t put her finger on why.

“Ma’am, please sit. Jones here will bring you a cup of tea.”

Her feet return her to the bench without conscious thought, her knuckles are white as she grips the bag in her hand, her calling card still between two fingers. The constable rounds the desk and comes to sit beside her; she wonders if she can run far enough to avoid what is coming next.

“You knew Inspector Robinson?”

The past tense tells her; she doesn’t listen.

“I know him, yes. We’re…”

_Happy_ , she doesn’t finish, her throat too tight. The constable lays a hand on her shoulder in a display of comfort; she shies away.

“I’m very sorry, but Inspector Robinson was in a motor vehicle accident this morning and died instantly.”

A police station is never truly silent, but for a moment it feels that way.

“I want to see him,” she says; her hands are shaking so hard the beads on her handbag clink together. It’s not true, of course, it can’t be true. A miscommunication, the gossip mill relaying wrong information.

The constable nods.

“I’ll speak with my inspector,” he says and stands.

A few minutes later he returns, trailed by a tiny man--Phryne wonders, idly, whether he met the recruitment criteria or if he had connections that led to people looking the other way--in a suit. It’s blue, the same shade as the one hanging in her wardrobe.

“Miss Fisher?”

She blinks, focuses on the man’s face. He seems sympathetic.

“Inspector Rounds,” he says. “I’ll drive you to the hospital.”

For a moment she is relieved; a miscommunication after all. Then she remembers the morgue is at the hospital as well. She stands, follows the man out of the station and to a motor car, sits silently as he drives. When they arrive she is out of the car without a thank you, heading towards the hospital entrance; Rounds catches her arm, walks her gently towards the morgue.

It isn’t until she catches sight of Mac, visibly shaken as she drags on her cigarette, that Phryne considers the possibility things are as they seem. When the doctor sees her and stands, dropping the gasper in the process, she knows. There is no denial left to hide behind. Mac meets her, thanks the inspector for escorting Phryne, pulls Phryne towards the bench to sit.

“No,” Phryne argues. “I need to see him.”

“The impact was very hard, Phryne. He doesn’t… it broke his neck, darling. You don’t want to see that.”

“I don’t. But I need to.”

Mac knows not to argue, and doesn’t let her arm go as she walks with Phryne towards the morgue they’ve been in a hundred times. She stops outside the door, wonders when she’ll start to cry.

The doors open--Phryne doesn’t realise she’d pushed them until they swing--and she steps inside. He’s on the metal table, a sheet up to his neck. There’s a gash on one cheekbone, surprisingly small, and the broken neck is subtly obvious, but it’s his body. It’s not him though, and the absence takes her breath away.

“We were going to get married,” she says.

“No you weren’t.”

Phryne smiles despite herself. “No. We were having too much fun with the alternative. But we _could_ have. We were supposed to have time.”

She moves forward, smoothes his hair--half out of its pomade--then moves the sheet down. He’s still in his suit, so she fixes the tie. Runs her hand down the lapel; there are still shards of glass from the car window and it cuts her hand. She doesn’t notice.

“I love you,” she says. She’s lived with the guilt of not telling someone often enough, and she is determined to never feel that regret again.

 In the moment, she’s not entirely sure it will make a difference.


End file.
